Unplanned
by Ciella
Summary: A married couple grapples with an unplanned pregnancy.


Geoffrey and I have been married for a few years, and in that time, I feel like I've learned an incredible amount about my husband. I might actually know more about him than anyone else, which would make me an expert. Out in the world, he has a forward-leaning walk. He never moves at less than a brisk pace. He speaks in clipped sentences most of the time, unless he's gotten into another argument with Captain MacDonald. He likes to go out on a limb for a lady, whether that's to hold open the door or to pay some small compliment.

But in his own home, another side of his will manifest with time. In the early days of serving as Max's right hand, there was no democratic council deciding what actions were fair in love and war, there was only Max, and his orders. A lot of my husband's work in that time was seeking out and eliminating rebels. It was brutal, violent work, which has stayed with him for a little over ten years now. It still keeps him up at night. You can tell if he's had a night terror if you get up around his usual waking time, shortly before dawn, and you don't see a cowlick towards the back of his head. His hair grows in a spiral pattern there and he's a back-sleeper, so he always wakes up with a tiny cowlick. Or you might wake up around 5 a.m. to the sound of the shower running, because he woke up in a cold sweat.

The work that he used to do makes it hard for him to be around loud, sudden noises, like fireworks or action movies. He doesn't dive for cover or shout or any of the reactions I'd expected. Instead, he retreats inward. He gets the thousand-yard stare and freezes in place. He physically becomes cold like he just fell into the lake. When he gets into this mode, our friends all know by now that no one but me should be touching him or otherwise trying to rouse him, because when that happens he often comes out of it disoriented and very tense, which can lead to him defensively lashing out. The only safe way to rouse him is to find a quiet place and sit with him until his eyes refocus on the outside world. He might make distressing, fidgeting motions with his hands, like he's playing with an invisible cat's cradle, but you have to leave him be. Don't try to hold them or stop their movement. Just let him be. When roused correctly, he comes back to me safely, but exhausted, and often needs to rest afterwards.

He never took naps before we were married, and he got rather offended when I first suggest he try. Quack warned me shortly after he heard of us tying the knot: Geoffrey is a terrible patient. Noncompliant. Impatient. Fearful. Quack has been trying to refer my husband to a mental health professional for several years now, trying to give him something for the anxiety and the night terrors, just a small dose of something safe to take the edge off. What I learned, when he finally agreed to seek help, was that my husband was petrified of seeking treatment. When he finally accepted the referral to see a therapist, I would always stay in the waiting area, afraid in the beginning that my husband would elope as soon as he saw the chance. Instead, therapy reliably sent him into a thousand-yard stare. Therapy had to be brief in the beginning, although it slowly got longer, week after week, as he continued to freeze in sessions only to "thaw out" and see that he was perfectly safe.

After hearing all this, you might think that my husband is high-maintenance, and you'd be correct. But he's also a wonderful, decent man who pays back all my TLC tenfold. I don't have to use an alarm clock, because he's my alarm clock. I wake every morning to him stroking my back, as I'm a belly-sleeper. Neither of us will ever be chefs, but he is by far the better cook, and he specializes in simple, healthy meals, the kinds where all the ingredients are still recognizable at the end. Eating healthy helps him feel like he's in control of something, namely his body. One of my favorite things he makes are these open-faced breakfast sandwiches: whole wheat toast, mashed avocado, poached egg, salt and pepper. He'll have it all ready for me with some hot coffee by the time I'm dressed. We always have a good morning kiss. And he always has something sweet to say about how I look.

If we're separated during the day, he'll text me and ask me all about the work I'm doing, and meet me for lunch. If it's nice we'll eat a packed lunch together- usually his creation as well- but if it's wet out, we'll go to one our favorite pubs not far from work. It's nothing special, but good for a Welsh rarebit and a beer. I like to get poutine. He'll taste mine, and I think he loves it, but he never orders it. When the day's over, whether I'm coming home from work or from being out and about with a friend, he always comes to walk me home. I've told him time and again that I'm not afraid. He answers that he is, and that he likes the ritual of it. I've even come to enjoy the argument. Neither of us actually gets upset about it anymore. It's a fake, flirtatious kind of fight.

When we get home, he usually has a teakettle on the stove, anxious to be poured. We'll have tea together and then each go off to do our separate things; he prefers to read, and I prefer to watch TV. We come together again an hour or so before bed, sometimes to make love, sometimes to wind down. When we were first married, we were at it all the time, almost everyday. That's why I had had an IUD put in. But I had gotten the kind that's good for three years, which had to be removed recently. My doctor had asked me if I wanted to replace it right away, but I had wanted to come home and talk to Geoffrey about it first, since the next one would mean another three years of birth control, or otherwise paying for three years and then taking one out before then.

I had resolved to talk to Geoffrey about it right away, because I'm uncomfortable talking about these things, and I knew that if I didn't deal with it right away, it would quickly be forgotten. We don't discuss things like children. We've always had so much going on in the present or the near future that we never got around to what was then the distant future. Sometimes I think I want children, like when I see a sweet baby sleeping in its carrier or a small child holding its papa by the hand. Other times I don't, like when I've had a bad day and the tot in line behind me at the grocery store starts screaming because it wanted a yellow Hot Wheels instead of a red one. But when I think about our child, with some mix of my husband's snub nose and boxy head, and my light frame and almond-shaped eyes, I swoon, because for some reason it's completely different when it's ours.

The plan had been to talk to Geoffrey the week before his birthday dinner. It didn't happen. Amy got engaged, and Elias and Megan discovered that they'd be having another little girl. The week came and went. I went to bed each night thinking, _damn, I really dropped the ball; I really have to do it tomorrow!_ And then it was his birthday, and we had a lot of fun planned, so much that there never really seemed to be a good time to ask him. I was afraid of spoiling the mood. We went to the symphony, and then met up with some of his friends from Geoffrey's academy days and their spouses at a gastropub.

My husband rarely drinks; he doesn't like the feeling of losing control. But this particular group of friends is different for him. They're from before everything happened. They're all still kids in each others' minds. So he lets himself have a little fun for once, just as I hoped he would, although he stops after tipsy, and a lot of these academy guys are going for wasted. When they decide to leave for a bar crawl, we each go our separate ways, they to their next watering hole, and we to our home.

There's something excited about watching him let go just a little. It's like watching an attractive man in a suit loosen his tie. Part of the appeal is that he's still so buttoned up, so proper. But letting out his tie is like an invitation, the beginning of undressing him. We stumble home together in near silence. He opens the door, fumbling several times with the keys, but we giggle about it, as I tease him the whole time for being clumsy. As soon as the door closes behind us, he picks me up and carries me off to the bedroom, and we have a great time that ends with us sleeping like babies.

The next day is business as usual. My husband thanks me for a great birthday, but beyond that, we're off to work, off to our routines. A number of engagements with friends and the impending holidays eat up most of our free time, which passes through our fingers like fine sand. Weeks go by, and the celebrations and get-togethers show no signs of stopping.

"Do you think we could skip Sonic's party tonight? I just don't feel like it," I tell Geoffrey at lunch that day. We're eating outside, probably for the last time this year, as it's quickly getting very cold.

My husband scans me quickly from waist to eyes. "Are you feeling okay? You look different."

"Honestly, I'm just really tired and cranky," I whine, drinking hot soup from a thermos. "I just want to stay at home tonight and watch TV."

He makes a noise like _tsk_ and laughs in that quiet way of his. He gives me a tender look, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "That's fine by me. His parties are a little rowdy for me."

For the rest of the afternoon, I just want to find someplace to lay down and take a nap. At one point we were sitting for a security briefing with Geoffrey's favorite, Captain MacDonald, and I find myself wondering if I could discreetly lay my head down on the table without him noticing. Geoffrey is intermittently taking notes and fighting with MacDonald- _Are you crazy?_ _You can't assign fewer than ten men to the entire Southern Tower!_ \- but he still looks over his shoulder at me every now and again, and I see concern in his eyes.

When we get home that evening, I literally take the minimum number of steps required to get from the door to the couch, fall onto it, and fall asleep. Geoffrey most likely covered me with a blanket at some point, because I woke up with one on. I wake up to him petting me and scratching around my ear the way I like. "Hey, sleepy cat. Feel like having some dinner?"

"Sort of. I mostly want to keep sleeping."

"Try to eat a little, and then you can go back to sleep." He offers me a hand to help me up, and pushes in my chair at the table. Tonight's dinner is one of my favorites of all the meals that he makes: grilled salmon, roast sweet potato, and broccoli. But one sniff of the fish and the veggies makes my organs want to play Musical Chairs. I never thought I would say this, but the fish looked familiar and yet entirely unappealing to me. He looks at me again, and I know I'm making him worry. I try to take small bites. It's making me really, really nauseous.

He looks between his food and mine, about halfway though his plate while I'm just picking at mine. "Is it okay?" He asks me. "I can make you something else."

"No, no, I love salmon!" I insist. My body decides it's had enough. I clap my hand over my mouth with an "urp!" and run for the bathroom. I barely make it. He's close behind me, holding my hair back and stretching as far as he can to fill a cup with water. He offers it to me whenever there's a longer pause in between. My mouth is full of that awful, battery acid taste, and I'm hyper aware of the little pieces floating. Rinsing my mouth out feels amazing by comparison.

"I shouldn't have tried to make you eat," he says, indirectly apologizing. "You should definitely stay home tomorrow."

I nod. I don't have the energy to argue with him.

"Are you still nauseous?"

"No, I think I'm okay. But we just probably still grab a trash can just in case."

He helps me up and over to our bed, where I don't even want to change out of my clothes, I just want to throw myself down and sleep. "Hold on, you'll thank me later," he says, unclasping my bra and tossing it aside. He releases my hair from its ponytail and tucks me in. Just a few days before, I had put on flannel sheets for the upcoming winter, the black and white plaid set that I bought because we're a tuxedo couple that could always use more tuxedo in our lives. He sets the little trash can right next to the bed in case I need it, and the water on the nightstand.

"Thanks, honey," I mumble when he brushes my forehead lightly and leaves me a goodnight kiss.

"Don't worry about it. Call me if you need anything, ok? The door will be open." He turns off the light, and almost immediately, I'm asleep.

The first day that I feel like this, I'm positive that it's a twenty-four hour stomach flu. But then two, three, four days in, I'm still exhausted and vomiting periodically, minimum three times a day, with a record of about ten times. When it continues, the rational part of my brain is saying, _we should really go to the doctor and find out what this is about_. But then the denial steps in and says, _if we ignore this, we'll be fine._ So I go back to work and try to hide my nausea as much as possible by telling Geoff that I'm on a diet, and running the shower when I have to puke.

But my husband is annoyingly clever. "Oh, really?" he says, dry and nonchalant, when I tell him I'm on a diet. "That's too bad. I was going to make tuna tonight."

I laugh a little too loud because I'm nervous. "Babe, I don't even like canned tuna."

"No," he says, toying with me now. "I had gotten yellowfin tuna yesterday. Caught near Japan. Supposed to be really high-grade."

I gulp. He has this aloof look on that I just hate. I hate it because he looks so handsome this way, no matter how angry I am with him, and because he looks so smug. Part of me wants to grab him and kiss him on the mouth. Part of me wants to knock his teeth in. "I told you, I don't even like tuna!" I surprise myself by raising my voice.

Something registers behind his eyes. Nothing changes in his expression. It's like the difference between when you run into an acquaintance and at first they don't recognize you, and then when they remember who you are, only in a negative way. His voice is like velvet when he says, "Honey, have you considered seeing a doctor?"

"Why would I need to go to a doctor?" I shout, although I have no idea why.

He's clearly shocked, so much such that his ears flatten against his head and his tail fluffs out in surprise. "You haven't really been yourself recently."

"What do you mean?" I ask, sounding rational, albeit briefly, before lapsing into tears. I couldn't see him at that moment, with my head in my hands, but he probably looked so profoundly lost that I would pity him if I weren't being such a diva. He closes the distance between us and wraps me in a hug, resting his cheek against my head.

"Why don't we call Dr. Quack and ask if he's got any appointments soon, eh? It doesn't have to be a big deal. It's almost time for our physicals anyway. You know what, I ought to get mine out of the way, too."

I'm sobbing into his chest and I have no idea why. He sighs, rubbing my back until I quiet down. I look up at him. He looks so lost. "I'm sorry, babe."

"It's okay. You're probably going through a lot right now. Just give me a minute and I'll make the appointments with Quack."

I can see that my unpredictable behavior is wearing heavily on my order-loving partner, but sometimes, I feel like I'm just an outside observer on my body instant of Mission Control. Quack's able to fit us in after just a few more days, but in that short span of time, Geoffrey and I get in more fights than we've ever had in five years of knowing each other. I'm still nauseous and throwing up a lot, but I'm more worried about being a psychotic jerk. I don't remember what I said to him the last night before we went to see the doctor, but I do know that it was a dirty jab involving his father, which makes him so angry that he actually storms out of the house without a jacket, and doesn't come home until well after I've gone to bed.

We prepare for our appointments without saying much. Geoffrey is still very upset by whatever awful thing I said. I can't admit to him that I don't remember it, because that would possibly be the single most insensitive thing I could say. But I can't apologize for it with any degree of specificity because I can't remember it. There's a fine line between when he's peeved and when he's furious. When he's annoyed, he makes biting, snide remarks, moves very quickly and often, and is generally unpleasant to be around, like most people in a bad mood. But when he's really pissed, he bares says anything at all, and I find that infinitely worse. He skips breakfast and drinks just black coffee instead. I feel like it's going to be a bad day.

Early in the morning, Quack's office is pretty empty yet. The only patients are the occasional adult looking for a rapid strep test before work or the enlisted soldier with a bad hangover hoping to get hooked up with something stronger than aspirin. I feel nervous. My husband is very intent on reading the book he brought. I feel like I can see his blood pressure going up with every tick of the clock. "Honey," I whisper, although he doesn't look at me. "I'm really sorry for what I said last night."

He sighs, closing his book with a _snap._ "I was a citizen before I married you, you know."

"What?"

He glances at me. "You said that the only reason I married you was for citizenship. I'm telling you that that's impossible, because I already had it."

"Is that what I said? Honey, I'm so sorry," I say, feeling like rational me is back for however long, just in time to deal with all the shitty consequences of batshit crazy me. I pet his arm, but he withdraws.

"You don't even remember what you said? Then how can you even be sorry?"

I lower my gaze. I'm so embarrassed. "I thought I had said something lousy about your dad."

He's quiet. I can't look at him. If he still looks so stern, I'll definitely cry.

"I don't understand why I've been like this anymore than you do, but I really, really am sorry."

He surprises me by touching his nose to mine. "No, I should be sorry. You're trying to do the right thing. I'm just being an instigator."

I smell his breath and his cologne and suddenly I'm super horny. I find myself wondering where we could hide for a quickie when the nurse calls him. His appointment is brief. The nurse takes his height and wait, asks him twenty questions about his health habits, and then the doctor asks if he has any questions or concerns, which of course, he does not. While he's in the exam room, the nurse calls me. She takes my height and wait, asks me twenty questions, and I wait, wondering when she's going to bring the doctor in, and if Geoffrey's okay. She pauses after looking over my answers.

"Have you taken a pregnancy test?" Her voice is so matter-of-fact. It gives me chills. I hadn't considered pregnancy. The nurse calls me out of my reverie by saying, "You know, the kind you get at the drug store, to test your urine?"

"No, I haven't. Is that a possibility here?"

"Yeah, of course. If it comes back positive, Doc is going to want to do blood work to confirm." This is old news to her. She reels out of the room to find me a test, meanwhile, I'm reeling in my seat. I'm very nauseous and the room is spinning. _Oh shit_ , I think to myself, _I never got around to asking him if he wants kids or not_. Before I know it, the nurse is back. She takes one look at me and hands me a bin before I can even ask for one. I puke into it almost instantly. When it's over, she helps me into the bathroom, where she can dump and rinse out the bin and explain the simple instructions found on every drugstore pregnancy test.

It only takes two minutes, but they're the longest two minutes of my life. I really wish Geoffrey could be there with me, not that there's room in the tiny office bathroom, with room for about one child-sized toilet, a wall-mounted sink, and a door that opens inward. Somehow, he must have read my mind, because he knocks on the door. "You alright? I heard you puking from the waiting room."

"Yeah," I try to laugh. "You're not going to believe what I'm doing right now."

"Oh?" He replies, clearly very curious, even with a door between us. "One thing's for sure: if you're talking, you're probably not vomiting."

I pick up the test where it lays flat, reactive end covered, on the edge of the sink. I open the door slightly. First he looks me in the eye, with a hint of a smile drawing up his cheeks, and then he looks down at my hands. When I had picked up the test, no result had registered yet, so I'm expecting him to be frozen and wide-eyed in the doorway. I look down, too. There it is: the tiny pink plus.

Neither of us know what to say. I have serious cotton-mouth. I want to be able to jump up and hug him, but I don't know if it's safe to be happy about this. Maybe he had this vision of continuing Special Ops work that didn't allow for children in terms of scheduling or safety. Maybe he's not ready. Maybe he's the kind of guy who'd rather get a bunch of dogs and treat them like babies until they inevitably passed away, at which point he'd get more...

We were rescued by the nurse, who comes back to check on us. She observes us and said, in a flat tone, "I'm all ready to do your blood work, Mrs. St. John."

Geoffrey stepps aside, tripping over himself. "I'll- um- I'll be in the waiting area."

"Ok. I'll be out soon."

If the nurse is judging me, I don't notice. She finds a vein with great efficiency and starts tapping me like a maple tree. "So some of these will be routine, to check on your iron, your red blood cells, your liver function, et cetera. One is going to be different, the test to confirm your test result."

"Okay."

When she's done drawing my blood, the nurse looks at me with a kind of stoic compassion, and says, "It's okay to not know what to feel."

"Thank you."

"We'll have the results back in a couple days. In the meantime, try to take it easy and drinks lots of water, and avoid alcohol and smoking. We'll call you with the results, okay?"

"Okay."

As I walk out the door of the exam room, I feel in my gut that the results are going to come back positive. My husband is just finishing up with the front desk. We have pretty good insurance through work, so there isn't much for him to do except show our cards and sign his name on the dotted line. When he turns towards me, his smile makes me uncomfortable. I think it's because he's trying very hard to put on a happy face for me. "Well," he says with a laugh, "I guess your symptoms make a lot more sense now."

"Yeah, that's true." We walk out onto the lane, which is hard-packed and littered with dead leaves. They skitter around with every gust of wind. I shove my hands in my pockets, cursing myself under my breath for not wearing a hat. I'm aware of Geoffrey scanning me again from the corner of my eye. He's thinking and trying to gather a little extra data to inform what he should say. The whole way home, I feel the words at the back of my throat, as simple as "I really want this," or "please, can we keep it?" not well thought-out, but a raw urge to make my stance clear. But the words stick, refusing to come out. I'm angry at myself, because I can tell how lost and helpless Geoffrey feels based on his posture, and it would be so easy to rescue him from it, but I'm too much of a coward to stick up for what I want.

Almost as soon as we get home, he goes into our study, a space that was almost marked off as waste. It was originally a coat closet, and then a pantry, and now, a very small study. When we moved in, he laid shelves into the walls so that the walls could carry books without projecting more into the limited space. It has just enough room for an L-shape desk, a computer, an office chair, and a door that opens out. Especially when we first moved in, shortly after we'd gotten married, he would hole himself up in there whenever we argued or if something unhappy had taken place. I originally thought that he was sulking. But I soon learned that he goes to our tiny study to find solutions to situations that he doesn't know enough about. And sure enough, I can hear him typing away from the kitchen.

Within a few days, a package arrives at our door, addressed to him. Working in the confidential field that we do, even as partners, we make it a habit not to open each other's mail. I leave it on the counter for him and lay down for yet another nap. By the time I wake up, almost two hours later, he's slicing the box open with a fresh box-cutter and opening the flaps. For some reason, I feel like this might be the kind of package he wouldn't want me to see, but I'm too curious not to peek around the corner. He pulls out a thick book and a chunky plastic bottle, as well as a few smaller books. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, causing the floorboard to creak. He says, without looking, "Oh good, you're awake! Come in, there's a few things here I want to go over with you."

I have a flashback to when I had just started working with him, when I would knock on his door in the officer's dormitories and he would invite me in like it was nothing. Meanwhile, I'd be sweating from the nape of my neck to my tail, and all over my palms and feet, never knowing what he had in store for me that day, praise or lecture or some abhorrent task. I feel a little woozy as I walk over to him, like the floor isn't solid. He pulls out my chair and pushes me in, with a quick nuzzle of my head.

"I know we were kind of caught off guard," he says, with a blush evident through pale fur. "So I got a few things to help us make the right decision, and to help you stay healthy in the meantime."

The thick book titled, "Am I ready?" sits on the table, featuring a bunch of different couples on the front cover: a middle-aged couple with a small child; a young couple, probably college-aged, holding a new baby; a lady in her thirties with her parents and five, smiling children; couples and singles with no kids at all, some with pets, some holding their partner as if they were able to waltz offscreen.

"It, um, covers a few things to think about that I didn't, um, wouldn't have known to consider," he explains, fidgeting a little. He's very pink in the face. He meets my eye for just a second, and looks away with a smile. I think he wants what I want. But it's a little too soon to say.

I crack open the heavy tome and slide it closer to myself along the tablecloth. We gloss over the contents, pointing different topics out that we'd like to see. He points out the section on finances, and I point out the section on age. Each chapter ends with a section called "Pros and Cons", where presumably everything is weighed depending on circumstance, depending on what someone might want or not want.

I look up at him, where he's still waiting, nervously, to see what I think. I surprise him with a brief kiss on the lips and the words, "Thank you."

"Do you think it'll be helpful?" He asks, full of hope. His eyes are shining.

"I think so." I pull him in for a squeeze. He's not a good hugger, kind of like hugging a dummy or a scarecrow, but he feels amazing. His body is tight and lean with muscle, and his fur is thick and plushy, especially the white zones over his torso and belly. Few have known the pleasure I have of stroking that soft, silken pelt. But you can't do it too much, because belly rubs put him to sleep.

He gives a happy sigh, patting me on the back as we part. "I'm so glad. There are a few other things here, which you can really take or leave. These were little booklets by the same author, some things on what the other sex sometimes thinks but doesn't say, for whatever reason. This one is for women on men's thoughts on having kids, and the other is the opposite,. Oh, and, um... prenatal vitamins." For whatever reason, all of this has him blushing so hard that his whole face is red. I take it as a sign that he's being sincere and vulnerable with me, that this isn't easy for him to do, but he probably feels like it's the right thing to do.

My heart swells with affection for him. I want to rescue him from all this discomfort immediately and show him that he's loved. So I take him by the hand and guide him back to the bedroom, to make sweet, slow love. When it's over, and we each collapse and roll away from one another, I pet his damp hair and praise him, telling him that it was great, telling him how much I love him. He's a cuddler. As much as he enjoys lovemaking, I think he prefers the afterglow and pillow-talk. He nuzzles me and leaves kisses all around my face. But every now and again, he also touches my belly lightly, right around my navel, with the heel of his palm. He's already thinking about it as a baby, as our baby.

In my experience, whether the man rolls over and falls asleep, wants to cuddle, or gets up to get dressed and leave, their understanding of what women do after sex is not a woman's understanding. I have to wrestle my way out of his loving embrace to get up and pee so I don't get a UTI. He protests, but I insist that I'll be right back, and he pouts like a spoiled tot. Of course I actually do have to go, but I also stop in the other room for the thick book. When I get back into bed next to him, his eyes all hazy and relaxed, we pile pillows up against the headboard so we can read in bed together. I snuggle into the crook of his arm and open the book so that we're each holding one side, and we start reading.

We're lucky, as our work is pretty understanding. Geoffrey doesn't take days off. If he's sick, he quarantines himself to one room, and works on records, or performance history, or whatever other dry subject he can tackle on a computer with a mask on. He insists that I stay home when I'm sick, because he's a hypocrite but also because he loves to spoil his wife. Work- namely Elias- knows that his right-hand advisors and protectors don't take personal time off because they partied too hard this weekend or because we feel like a lazy day in bed. He knows that we only take time because we need it. I suspect that Geoffrey did something rare, something we've always had the capacity to do but never take advantage of: I suspect that he called the King's personal phone to notify him of our situation.

Which is to say that we work from home while waiting for the results to come back. One of us is corresponding with other officers about security, the other one consulting "Am I Ready?", or one of the booklets. It works out nicely for us. I read and do a lot of soul-searching in between trips to the bathroom to barf. My husband covers me on calls with high-ranking advisors and officials, explaining that I had "gone to check the stats" or was otherwise "looking for record of such an incident." I'm frequently the only woman on the calls, so all things female and reproductive tend to fall under the unspoken rule of _Things We Don't Talk About_.

When the phone rings, we really only have one response, which is funny now that we share a last name: "Hello, St. John speaking." It doesn't matter if it's a telemarketer, an academy friend, Sally, or a five-star general. But it's fair to assume that it's about half boring work-related calls from important-if-stuffy figures, and about half calls from friends planning a good time. The only exception to the rule used to be General D'Coolette, Antoine's late father, who would call pretending to be any number of other people, usually sporting a very bad, fake German accent over a very thick, unmistakeable southern French accent. You could always tell that the General was calling, because my very serious husband would fire right back at him in a terrible Indian accent over an ever-fading Aussie accent.

But the General passed away several years ago, so we don't get calls like that anymore, and Antoine isn't up to continuing the tradition, although Geoffrey does occasionally confuse their voices on the phone, probably because he misses his old friend. This time, when the phone rings, I can tell that the call is also unlike any other. My husband answers as usual. He pauses, listening. He's hardly breathing. At first, I'm afraid he's frozen in panic. But then he says, "Okay then, I'll let her know. Thank you. G'bye." And hangs up. He turns around, his eyes glassy and his lips trembling. "The blood test came back positive."

I leave my my work laptop on the table to run over to him and hug him. He squeezes me close. I hear him crying. "Honey?" I ask, looking up at him. He can't hold them back.

"I really wanted to be neutral with you to see what you wanted to do," he chokes, trying to wipe tears away quickly and save a little face. "But I can't pretend to be neutral anymore. Please, Hershey, let's have this baby. I can be a good father. I really, really want to be a father." He sobs, holding me tightly against him.

"Honey..." is all I can muster, just shocked. Pleased, but shocked. He goes on breathlessly,

"I know I haven't been good at managing things in the past. But I really want to get my act together. I'll go back to Quack and take what he prescribed, okay? I'll get things under control. I'll make sure I'm stable so I can be the kind of man you can depend on."

"Honey, it's okay. You're okay," I coo, petting his face, wiping tears away. My eyes well up, just seeing him so emotional. I've never seen him cry before. "I want to keep the baby, too."

"Oh, thank God," he whispers into my hair. He kisses my forehead repeatedly, muttering "Thank you. Thank you."

He needs time to let this sink in, and if I'm honest with myself, so do I. We both stand there for several minutes, hugging, speaking nonsense, crying tears of joy, and being completely overwhelmed together. The beautiful moment is interrupted when I'm overcome with nausea with little warning and throw up on him. I apologize over and over again, but he just laughs, stripping his soiled sweater off over his head, leaving him in a white undershirt. Nothing could bring him down right now, it seems. We have a very simple unfinished basement, which houses little more than a washer/dryer and a mud sink at the moment, the ugly boxy kind that you use for dirty things, the kind that will never be really clean and appropriate for company. He takes the sweater downstairs to rinse it before throwing it in the wash.

When he comes back up, he tries to act nonchalant, telling me with his back turned, "You know, I've been crunching the numbers over the last couple days. We'll have to put up some of our savings, but we're really not in such a bad place, financially."

I realize that he's been planning to have a family in his own way, probably for a long time now. The last several weeks had been so stressful, and if we had only talked about it, it all could have been avoided. "Were you thinking what I was thinking?"

"How so?" he asks, looking sexy and clueless, leaning back against the wall in his undershirt. He has a nice "V" under his navel where the muscles of his lower abdomen meet his pelvis, visible in between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his jeans.

"I figured when we got a positive urine test that the chance of it being a false positive was pretty low."

He nodded. "There are a couple reasons why you might get a bad reading, so it's always a good idea to confirm your results. But when I saw the positive test in your hand, I thought to myself: this is it, this is my chance to be a parent."

"Babe, how long have you wanted this, and why didn't you just tell me?"

He fidgets, touching the tips of his fingers together in an absent-minded way. "Oh, it's been a while, but I kept putting off talking about... starting a family," he muttered. "How do you ask someone to do that?"

"To do what?"

He's getting exasperated with me. I'm not sure why, but something about pregnancy clearly embarrasses him. "How does a man, who will never carry a child, ask a woman to do that for him?" I look away and smile. He's so formal about it. I guess some things never change. "What? It's a huge request!"

"Of course it is, Geoff. But it's not something you do for someone- it's something you do _with_ someone. It's different when a guy knocks a girl up and leaves; then he gets to pass on his genes without doing any of the work. But when you raise a child together, I think it's different."

He stands quietly for a moment, digesting this. Then he asks me, "So how can I support you?"

"You mean now, or-"

"I mean while you're pregnant, after the baby arrives, the whole time."

"You've been doing a pretty good job already, babe. We're both working, we have a safe place of our own, the bills are paid. You're always reminding me to eat and drink lots of water and take my vitamins. You put up with my wild mood swings. I even puked on you just now!"

He laughs it off. "I can deal with vomit, that's not a problem."

"You're honestly doing fine, honey. I don't need anything more from you at the moment. Except maybe-" I stop in my tracks to fill up a glass of water, having just reminded myself how important that is. "Except maybe moving to a safer line of work."

"I can speak to Elias first thing tomorrow. He's been talking about moving us into an advisory role."

"Does it change our pay?"

My husband makes a "hold on" gesture with his hand, which comes with a matching thinking expression. He has to check the phone ledger. Part of his job is managing the many cogs in an ever-growing security system, which is largely manpower, with an increasingly technological component. He flips back several pages. Then he smacks the page emphatically when he finds the conversation he's looking for. "At the time of the offer, it did. Right now a lot of our work is more wage-related. The advisory role is salaried."

I join him by the ledger, my water glass in one hand, my other hand on his back as I try to follow his eyes. "Okay, but does it break out to be more or less?"

"Mm," he does some quick math with pen and paper, right on the ledger. "It's not a lot more. But again, it's salaried. It's a little more flexible. It's definitely a lot safer. But of course, when he needs us, he needs us."

"Of course, that comes with the territory."

"My thoughts exactly." He looks over at me, scanning me from waist to eyes and back again. "By the way, I wanted to offer you a choice. Would you prefer to work, especially while the baby is young?"

"I have to think about it, Geoff. I haven't gotten that far ahead yet."

"Okay. Think about it, and let me know." He kisses my forehead and turns away from the ledger. "In the meantime, let's get back to work."

The following week, Geoffrey asks Elias to make time for a short meeting. The young king has a difficult relationship with my husband, namely that my husband is frequently right but is rarely right gracefully. Geoffrey is not exactly a warm, friendly person at work, and he is quite possibly the worst yes-man in history. But as irritating as Elias finds him, he's one of the most dependable advisors a monarch could find anywhere. Already, after only three short years of rule, there has been an assassination attempt, and it was my husband that discovered it in time to neutralize the threat. They don't care for each other as people, but they complement each other beautifully in the roles they fulfill.

Geoffrey only meets with Elias to see if the role shift is still available, and with an adjustment period to take into account, it is. But like any news, ours quickly spreads through the grapevine. Friends start calling us left and right asking if it's true, if we are really expecting our first child in September of next year. At this point, there's no hiding it. "Yes," we invariably say, "It's true, and we can't wait."

"Was it planned?" Everyone asks. Geoffrey hates this question; he doesn't see why it matters. I have no problem with it. "Nope!" I say. "A total, welcome surprise."

"What are you hoping for?" They might say if they're polite, or if they're really straightforward, "Do you want a boy or a girl?" My husband and I shout opposites simultaneously. In my heart of hearts, I really want a son. But he really wants to be 'Daddy' to a little girl.

The phone calls keep flooding in all through that week. We're saying the same things each time, but it doesn't get boring. If anything, it really helps cement the pregnancy into reality. It's a social fact now. I start to feel more comfortable in my changing skin. Still in my first trimester, I'm not showing at all, and thank God, the nausea is subsiding a little. But suddenly I _feel_ pregnant. Suddenly I feel justified reducing my caffeine intake, taking my vitamins, and eating like a mama-to-be. Suddenly Geoffrey's desire to coddle me and be super defensive of me in public makes me feel loved.

Soon, it's time to go in for an ultrasound and confirm the baby's due date. Geoffrey is so nervous. I don't know why. He's racing around before our appointment like I just told him my water broke. I have to ask him repeatedly on the way to Quack's to please slow down. "What's gotten into you?" I ask, a little agitated.

"I can't wait to see it," he tells me.

I click my tongue. I want to stay annoyed with him, but I can't. His excitement is contagious. "If they can tell us the sex and the species, would you want to know?"

"If there's no risk at all, sure. But if there's any risk at all, I can wait."

I nod. It's starting to feel normal to guard my belly now, even though I'm not showing. "Sweetie, please slow down. I'm out of breath."

"Sorry." He slows down considerably and takes my hand. "Do you have names in mind?"

"Oh, God, no. You're like, three steps ahead of me right now."

"Sorry," he says again. "I'm so, so, so excited."

"You know, we might accidentally find out the sex on the ultrasound."

"Again, so long as it's perfectly safe, I don't care."

Inside the Doctor's office again for the first time since our physicals, we sit and wait impatiently for our names to be called. There aren't a lot of doctors in a rural area like this, so we'll likely need a referral for an obstetrician, or otherwise make do with Quack if we're determined low-risk. My husband is practically unable to sit still. "Did you ever wind up following through with Quack about that anxiety medication?"

He glances at me, pausing briefly for the first time since we left the house. "No. I'll have to do that while we're here." He's speeding through his words.

"Try to breathe and be patient," I say, trying to project calm. "Everything's fine. I'm sure they'll call us soon."

After fifteen minutes or so, the same nurse calls us to the back, to take my weight all over again, and a basic set of vitals, before setting us up in the exam room. The scale indicates a gain of about two pounds, to which the nurse makes no response. "Is that appropriate?" I ask her.

She nods, busily preparing the room. "You're only expected to gain about five pounds in the whole first trimester. Most of the weight comes later."

I'm starting to feel antsy now. Geoffrey holds my hand as if he'll be swept away without it. The door opens. We hold our breath. It's Quack. "Wow, the unlikeliest of quiet patients!" He remarks. "We're here for an ultrasound today, right?"

"Yes."

The doctor nods, pulling over the machine that the nurse had left in the room, plugged in and ready to go. I shove my pants down a few inches below my hips, and double my shirt over my boobs. Out comes the terrible, cold blue goo. It goes on about three inches below my navel. Now that I look down my torso, I can see a slight elevation of the lowest part of my stomach. It's probably one finger-width above where it used to be. Quack pulls out a wand attached to the machine, a gray rod the length of my forearm with a large, black eye at the end. The eye of the device is plunged into the goo, and Quack presses a button on the machine body to control the monitor.

It takes a little searching to even find my uterus on the snowy black-and-white screen. Geoffrey is on the edge of his seat watching, and I would be too, if I weren't laying down. I close my eyes, afraid of what we might see. I'm afraid to open them and find a hollow gray jellybean, or no bean at all. We start to hear a noise, a rapid rhythm, a faint as if coming from a distance. Quack plays hot-and-cold with it, following it with the wand so that it gets a little louder as he gets closer. Then finally, the sound reached it's peak, like a tiny gallop, the baby's heartbeat.


End file.
